Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

“Oh, she did?” Ira congratulated himself that his guile had paid off.

“It didn’t hurt him any. But I was furious at the time.”

Ira addressed himself to his omelette. “I must say that he wasn’t on my list.”

III

It was a raw, sodden afternoon in November when Ira left the shelter of the Christopher Street subway kiosk — and left behind the more prudent passengers, lingering on the top steps, anxiously studying the lowering outlook for some sign of abatement of the rain. He set out as fast as he could toward Morton Street and Edith’s apartment, driving himself through cold, slant flurries, and over street rill and puddle, yet he still arrived with shoes soggy and dripping, and topcoat drenched through to the jacket shoulder. Just as well he had decided to stow his briefcase in his locker for the day; would have been one more thing to lug through the rain. Tomorrow was Friday anyway, and he had only one class that day, Culture and Education. He would read the damned assignment sometime in the morning. Or try to. Enough to get by.

It was actually interesting stuff, if he gave it a chance, but he didn’t. He let his brain turn to concrete when he opened a text in education. He didn’t give a damn. How the hell was it that Larry could stand up in class and palaver with Professor Elkins minutes on end, as if the rest of the class didn’t exist, or was an audience, about the effect on the Renaissance of Vittorino da Feltre’s theories of education — with a bewitched Professor Elkins? Just the reverse of the way things had been in that elocution class long ago — everything seemed long ago.

In black-and-white herringbone skirt, and finely knit black sweater, a wanly smiling Edith admitted Ira into the apartment. But no sooner had she done so than she sat down with an air of constraint, hastily, in her usual place on the gunny-cloth-covered couch, her back to the wall. Perhaps it was the black sweater that made her look paler than usual, or it may have been after she told him about her condition that he thought so in a kind of instant retrospect. She was her considerate, solicitous self: “Heavens, Ira, you didn’t tell me when you called you had no umbrella and no rubbers. You’re soaking. You’d better take off as many layers of those wet clothes as you can. And your shoes and stockings.”

“I wear socks.” Dripping fedora in hand, he stood raptly before the fire in the steel basket of the fireplace. “Boy, you got a fire going, Edith. That’s really nice.” He removed his topcoat, approached the hearth. “Gee.”

“You’re sopping wet. Ira, please take off your shoes, dear. You’ll catch your death.”

“Yeah? I don’t mind.” He sat down on the wicker armchair — which snapped disconcertingly under his weight. “I mean, I don’t mind taking off my shoes. . my socks too. . What d’you call that kind of coal, those big chunks, do they have a name?”

“Cannel coal.”

“Cannel coal?” He looked from fluttering flame to Edith, and back at flame appreciatively. “I wonder why?”

“I had the janitor bring them from the man across the street. It’s such a dreary day. I’ve been so cold.”

“Yeah? It’s so cozy. Only thing is, it’s expensive, I bet.”

“Moderately. But on occasion—” Smiling, in obvious discomfort, she thrust her legs out stiffly over the edge of the couch. “I thought I’d splurge.”

“Yes?” Shoes in one hand, socks in the other, Ira stood up. “Mind if I spread these on the radiator for a while? I bet they’ll start steaming too.”

“Please don’t stand on ceremony — after all these years. You can take your trousers off and dry them if you want to.”

“Oh, no! I just want to dry the socks. The shoes—” He flapped his hands in token of hopelessness. “They’ll take all night.”

“Yes? As long as that?” Again, there was no mistaking the stiffness with which her back slid up erect against the wall behind her — and the way her neck became rigid. “I had no business letting you come in all this weather. But I did desperately want to talk to you—” She laughed weakly. “As always.”

“That’s all right.” Ira sat down, tried rubbing toes together. “In front of this fire, after wading through all that rain, it’s like a reward—” He turned to look at Edith again, and stopped: something about her appearance he wasn’t taking into account, something amiss. He could feel his brow furrow as his gaze became intent. “You all right, Edith?”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid.” She grimaced uncharacteristically, more in annoyance with herself than in pain. Still, the way she shifted her body on the couch bespoke extreme discomfort.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve had the abortion.”

“When?”

“This morning. At about half past ten.”

“Pete’s sake, you let me talk about socks and shoes, and you’ve had an abortion? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve canceled classes. Tomorrow too probably. I called up the secretary of the English department—”

“What does the doctor give you? Does he know?”

“She.”

“All right, she. Does she know?”

“I’m to see her tomorrow morning again. It’s bearable. I’m sorry I’m so — conspicuously uncomfortable.” She grimaced again. “The doctor scrapes the inside of the uterus, scrapes the embryo off. It’s like an induced miscarriage—”

“I know. You told me.”

“Of course, there’s some internal hemorrhaging—”

“And as much pain as that?”

“That’s what worries me.”

“No wonder you keep moving around.”

“I just hope there are no complications. Infections and that sort of thing.”

“No.” Ira was silent, his own helplessness manifest. “Can I do something? Can I get you something to eat?”

“Oh, no. Thanks. I’ll have a cup of canned soup later. I’m not altogether helpless; I just feel awful.” She smiled bravely. “I’m sorry. I must look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Oh, no. What’s the difference?” Ira felt oppressed by the sheer gravity of the event, oppressed, compelled to undivided focus. “Infections. That’s something to worry about.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, I’m sure. There may be a few more complications than usual.”

“I hope you’re wrong. Anybody with you? Anybody coming? I mean Lewlyn.”

“No.”

“No?”

His fists struck both thighs. Thoughts slipped one past the other in his mind, rendering all opaque. Jesus, he could pass judgment — or he could feel disapproval — freely about Lewlyn. Real indignant. The night the Yankees won the series, he and Stella, Murderers’ Row, all right.

“You’re an angel to bear with me this way,” said Edith.

“Oh, no! Gee whiz.”

“You are. You’re the only one I care to see.” Her small hands in her lap, slack torso against the wall, brown eyes very large in the sallowness of pallid olive skin. “I’ve finished with all my lovers, I’m glad to say.”

All? Ira made no attempt to reply. The word all bulked in his mind, too unwieldy to budge.

“To make matters worse, Larry was here yesterday. That was quite a session.”

“Yesterday? He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Hardly surprising.” Nuances never found him prepared: Hardly surprising . “He came to resolve certain doubts he had about his mistress. About me— Are you in a draft?”

He had sneezed. The current of air flowing close to the floor had cooled his bare feet. He eased his sopping pants cuffs away from his shins.

“I’m all right.”

“Here, put this cushion over them.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Please, lad, I don’t want you catching another cold. I have a blanket somewhere—”